by Gigi Blume
“That woman doesn’t answer her phone.”
“She’s been a little busy.”
I could hear a frustrated sigh on her end of the line.
“At least tell me who you have at your table,” she demanded.
My thoughts raced to Beth. Lovely Beth in a burlap sack from Bloomingdale’s. Stella already placed her name card next to mine at the VIP table. At first, I was livid, but now with Catherine yelping in my ear, Beth at my side sounded like a superior alternative to the De Bourghs.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, ma'am,” The customer service rep was getting cheeky.
Catherine was silent for a long while. For a moment, I thought she’d hung up. But then she said with resignation, “You’ll take Anne around to meet your colleagues. Wear a blue bowtie to match her dress.”
“I’ll make sure Anne has a wonderful time,” I promised. Honestly, I didn’t anticipate I would have time to show anybody around. The jobs Stella had for me to make sure the gala ran smoothly wouldn’t allow for it. But Stella assured me Anne would hit it off with a certain gentleman on the guest list. Maybe he’d wear a blue bowtie.
Once Catherine was done giving me sufficient instructions—from her preferred dinner music to the foods she had an aversion to—she hung up, and I looked all around me to make sure no other old ladies were in line to torment me. But there were none. The only tormenting going on was in my head. I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. That would imply Beth had accepted my heart long enough to shatter it. Downtrodden was more the right word. I was a miserable mess. I naively thought that if I could explain my feelings in a letter, she’d be at my doorstep, aching to kiss me again. Or at least a text. But five days had passed without a whisper. Had she even read it? Couldn’t she see I was in torment?
It was probably too forward of me to kiss her on New Year’s Eve. But the look in her eyes seemed an invitation. They flashed with a challenge, provoking my concession. For one glorious instant, the universe exploded around us. It was everything. She was everything. Her beautiful body gave in to my touch, and a little moan escaped her throat. She had to feel it too. That was no ordinary kiss. I never knew it could be like that.
But then she pulled my hair and bit my lip. Who does that? A feisty, scrappy pixie who hated my guts, that’s who.
To top it all off, I was being a terrible brother. Georgia only had a couple more weeks before she had to go back to New York. I dreaded her absence, but at the same time, I must have been the worst companion imaginable. Thoughts of Beth occupied my every thought to the point of causing physical pain. A constant tightening in my chest felt as though it was caught between the jaws of a nutcracker. And I felt queasy all the time. I’d lost my appetite completely.
It wasn’t hard for Georgia to figure out something was wrong. She’d baked Mexican Wedding Cookies—my favorite. She made a royal mess of the kitchen, but the gesture was adorable. I knew she tried to get me out of my slump, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat more than one small bite.
“Wow!” she said. “You got it bad.”
“What? No, I don’t.”
Yes, I do.
“I knew you were twitterpated, but this goes way beyond. You never eat less than a dozen of these cookies in one sitting.”
Her little face was scrunched up in a know-it-all smirk, and she nodded smugly.
“Has it perhaps occurred to you I’m just stressed? I have a show opening soon, Tobias has been badgering me to sign on to another Dangerous film and look at the state of our house.”
I waved around erratically to accentuate the chaos.
“And stop using that word twitterpated,” I added. “It makes me feel like Bambi, and that just gets me depressed.”
“Okay, all right,” she huffed. “Not twitterpated. In love. Better?”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! I never said I was in love. I only thought about Beth all my waking moments. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t have daydreams without her popping into them like a zealous photo-bomber.
Was this what love was? More than ever, I wished Dad was there. He was crazy in love with Mom. He’d know if that’s what I was feeling for Beth.
“No,” I replied. “Not better. But thanks for the cookies all the same.”
Georgia rolled her eyes and gave me one of those head shakes mothers often do when their small child makes a mess.
“Don’t worry, big brother.” She slapped a hand on my back and patted it a few times. “Everything will turn out. We got this.”
She shot me a wink and scurried away without an explanation as to what ‘we got this’ meant. What did she mean? Who was ‘we?’ Even as I sat there with a tin of Mexican Wedding Cookies on my lap, I had a sinking feeling exactly what she meant, and that delivery for Beth had everything to do with it.
23
The Girl with The Lanyard
Beth
The charity carnival was a day away, and I was alone. Lydia was still in Mexico with Cole and Holly, and Jane got a callback for a show in New York. I’d never seen someone bolt to the airport so quickly. I was so incredibly happy for her, but it made me a little sad. I knew our days as roommates were numbered, and even though we promised to always keep in touch, it would never be the same. I guess that’s life. Welcome to adulting. Things change. Get over it.
But Jane being Jane was a little bit worried to leave me. She said she was worried I might eat my weight in ice cream. Pshh. As if. (I totally would do that.)
Jane knew me well enough to know that when faced with cruddy life situations, my coping mechanism was to stuff my face with copious amounts of sugar. Usually Nutella or ice cream. Or Nutella with ice cream. I assured her the sugar would remain at normal levels and waved off her concern with an “I’ll be fine.” Then I gave her a tight squeeze and ushered her out the door where her Uber waited. What she didn’t know was that I’d recently traded in sweets for French fries on top of pizza. I figured I’d get a head start on the carnival food.
There was no reason for her to worry, though. I didn’t tell her everything in the letter. I left out a few of the more sordid details and opted not to go into too much where it concerned Bing. Jane was just starting to get her life back. I didn’t need her to revert back into Cap’n Crunch hair and telenovelas. Bing was a big boy and when it came down to it, he made his own decisions. He’d come around if that’s what he wanted in the end. If he truly deserved Jane, even Will’s influence over him couldn’t hold him back. True love always wins. At least that’s what I learned from watching Princess Bride a thousand times. Then I got angry because Princess Bride reminded me of Will. Admittedly, everything reminded me of Will, but that was another can of worms. So what if I left out certain details for her own good?
Besides, Jane was too fixated on Will kissing me to hear much else. Her grin couldn’t have been much bigger if I’d told her I won the lottery and was elected president on the same day. Her reaction didn’t help my efforts to dampen the little leprechaun doing cartwheels in my tummy. It was a female leprechaun, and she liked to perform gymnastics whenever I thought of the kiss. So I resorted to the French fries on pizza tactic to squeeze her out.
“Are you upset I pushed him away?” I asked. She looked horrified when I told her I stopped the kiss by pulling his hair. I didn’t mention the biting. Even I thought that went too far.
“Upset? No! Not if you really don’t like him. Maybe you could have been a little less violent, but hey. These things do happen.”
She threw on a little Italian inflection with the last sentence.
“But you think I shouldn’t have brought up Jorge?”
“No. You spoke your mind, that’s all.”
“You might change your mind once I tell you what happened the next day.”
I told her how Will brought me the letter at work on New Year's Day and his explanation of his history with Jorge without mentioning Georgia. That alone was enough to give her pause. Jane had a hard time recognizing the bad in anybody and could hardly b
elieve someone could be so selfish. She kept asking questions, trying to find a way for both Jorge and Will to be in the right. She was sure there must be some mistake. That perhaps it was just a big misunderstanding like every single episode of Three’s Company. Somehow, she still held out for that final scene where the truth was revealed and everyone laughed about it.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to choose which man to believe,” I said as though I was Morpheus with a blue pill in one hand and a red pill in the other. “There’s only enough virtue between them to make one good guy and as far as I’m concerned, the needle had been swaying more toward Will lately.”
I saw her start at that, so I quickly added, “And it has nothing to do with that kiss.”
Or did it?
After a few moments of thought, she shook her head.
“Poor Will. He must have been upset after you told him off. It was probably hard to trudge up painful memories in writing you that letter.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. “I’m sure it’s upsetting for you, too.”
“Nope. Not at all.” I put on my big girl grin. “I’ll let you be upset for the both of us.”
“And poor Jorge,” she went on. “He seemed like such a nice guy.”
“Well, you know what they say about books and their covers.”
“Jorge has a really nice cover.” She nodded enthusiastically.
“Yep. But Will is the better book.”
She sighed and shook her head even more. “That’s enough metaphors for me.”
I agreed. “What do you think I should do? Should I say something to Stella?”
“No,” she said seriously. “Will would have told her if he wanted her to know.”
She was right. The story of Georgia’s encounter with Jorge wasn’t my secret to tell. It was a personal matter Will told me in confidence. Besides, now that the set was finished, I didn’t think Jorge had a reason to return to the theatre.
Jane watched me for the next few days, periodically checking the freezer for a stash of Chunky Monkey. When she didn’t think I was looking, she rummaged my usual hiding places for candy bars like an obsessed parole officer. I came up clean every time. If she were clever, however, she’d have searched my car for discarded pizza receipts. Since she left for New York, the house was quiet, and I rebelliously let the fast food evidence pile up in my garbage can.
I looked at my underwear-clad figure in my closet door’s full-length mirror. Had I put on some pizza weight? Even though the charity event was casual dress, I didn’t want to look bloated. I decided to go for a loose, flowery Mod Cloth dress and a denim jacket. The ensemble was very forgiving around the middle, but it made my legs look awesome—especially in strappy sandals. I wore that dress to auditions a lot. It had cap sleeves, a low, gathered, scoop neckline and empire waist that made my girls appear more perky. Believe me, those poor little pebbles needed all the help they could get.
As much as Stella’s charity event was a welcome distraction, my thoughts would often wander back to Will. I was so harsh on him and frankly was a little embarrassed how much I pigeonholed him into a stereotype. He wasn’t Brett. He wasn’t even the same species as Brett.
The silence in the apartment only made that voice in my head seem louder. Plus, I was convinced that little leprechaun in my belly was drunk.
I turned in my two weeks’ notice to Sir William Lucas with a quiver in my voice. Oddly, it was one of the hardest things I’d ever done. The look on his face alone made me feel like I’d just dashed a child’s dreams by telling him there’s no such thing as Santa Claus. But Charlotte was supportive, proud even. Mom was angry it took me so long. I could hear her chattering on about it in the background when I called Dad. He only laughed and whispered into the phone, “If you need money, I have a bit stashed away.”
I assured him it wouldn't come to that.
I had to admit, after several weeks of the tiring schedule of two jobs, I was at a loss for something. I had far too many quiet hours alone to pine over Will. I had to stop myself a few times when I tried to define what I felt. I wasn’t pining. Definitely not.
To prove my point, I did what any perfectly indifferent person would do. Stream all his movies and have a binge-watching marathon. With popcorn. I was fully prepared to hate every single one of them. But I didn’t. I was actually really invested in the storyline and sympathized with the characters. I just had to know what would happen to them in the next installment.
What had gotten into me? Had I somehow lowered my standards for entertainment? Was it only because Will looked certifiably gorgeous? He was certainly good at jumping on rooftops and hanging one-handed from helicopters. But his ability to pull off the quiet moments were enthralling. The raw emotion and gut-wrenching agony in his performance in the third movie when his character’s wife died got me right in the heartstrings. I wondered what experience he pulled from when he shed those tears. Maybe he was thinking about his sister. Or his parents. Suddenly, I felt a deep connection with him. Then I kicked myself because that was exactly what delusional fan girls did. Which led me to wonder how much fan mail he got from adoring women. It made me rage with jealousy.
That made me the most pathetic fan girl in all the land.
When Stella told me not to worry about transportation, I thought she meant we’d carpool. That was just one example of how incredibly ignorant I was of the lifestyle of the rich and famous. People like Stella didn’t carpool. People like Stella sent limos. The driver who picked me up at my front door regarded me from under the brim of his chauffeur hat. I couldn’t help but notice a three-day stubble and dimples for days. He flashed his pearly whites and offered to assist me down the concrete stairs from my second-floor apartment. I declined gratefully but did take him up on the hand he offered to help me in the car; he was totally the swooniest limo driver I’d ever seen. Not like I had much experience.
I scanned the beautiful interior and found it fitted up with a mini bar, stocked with bottled water and soft drinks and a complete entertainment system. Also, I was the only passenger. I figured I must have been his first stop, and we’d pick up Stella along the way—kind of like the way airport shuttle drivers operated. But when I asked him how long it would take to get to Stella’s house, he informed me she was already at ‘Pemberley.’ I thought he said Pepperdine at first, so naturally, I expected to arrive at a university, but when we climbed the hill in a super-fancy, residential neighborhood, I realized Pemberley was something else entirely. We passed beautiful houses that cost more than I would likely make in a lifetime. They were all unique and grandiose with green, stately lawns, and many of them were still decked in elegant Christmas decorations more glorious than any mall. As we made our ascent, the houses were spread apart by larger areas of land, and each one was even more magnificent than the last. I tried to look for street signs. Was Pemberley the name of a street or perhaps a bed and breakfast nestled amongst these great houses? But then we came upon it. The news vans lining the streets were a good indicator we were close. We were at the utmost top of the hill.
The name Pemberley Estate was cast in wrought-iron arches over grand gates that would give Buckingham Palace a run for its money. We crossed under it and navigated down a long driveway lined with jacaranda trees on either side. I loved jacaranda trees because they reminded me of spring and even though it was still early in the year, the lavender blooms already covered the branches. We journeyed a great distance before the house itself came into view. Rounding a corner, my breath quite escaped me as my eyes took in the vision of a majestic French chateau-style mansion situated like a sentinel above the neighborhood.
I wanted to laugh. Was this place for real? Surely, it had to be a hotel. It was stark white with a slate-gray roof and several arches in the front entry. And were those turrets on the far end of the house? This was bananas.
But although the place was ridiculously huge, it also had a cozy atmosphere. Maybe be
cause it was hedged in with rows of evergreen trees or rose bushes lining the edge of a small vineyard. Or maybe it was just the Disney-esque Christmas decorations or carnival tents scattered throughout the property. All I knew was that whoever lived here had taste. Hashtag rich-people-goals.
“Pemberley was built in 1934 at the height of the Great Depression for a department store executive,” the driver cheerily chirped through the window.
I chuckled. “That’s pretty ironic.”
“I know, right?” He laughed. “Anyway, it recently went through some major renovations to give it a contemporary update. Pretty cool, huh?”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It’s gorgeous. The maintenance alone probably costs more in a month than I make in a year.”
I could see him shrug in the rear-view mirror reflection. “I guess,” he said with a dimpled grin. “The Darcys spared no expense to bring this charity event here.”
My little heart did a flip at the mention of the name Darcy. Then it sank to my feet like a weighted yoga ball. This was Will’s house? As in he lived here? Honestly, I didn’t know what I pictured his home to be like. I guess I never gave the idea of Will living anywhere much thought. He was kind of a wandering soul—floating somewhere in the cinema firmament.
“Take me home,” I blurted.
“What?”
“Turn around. Take me home. Please.”
“But we just got here.”
I was suddenly extremely dizzy and lightheaded, not to mention the ringing sensation in my ears. It was either the effect of Will Darcy’s massive house or a nuclear bomb had just hit L.A.
“I’m going to be sick.”
The driver’s face went white. He was probably concerned I’d hurl all over the upholstery.
“Let me just get through this traffic,” he said.
Oh, but that wouldn’t do. Stella was a few cars ahead of us, greeting people as they disembarked.
“Oh, Bard,” I cried. “Go, go, go!”